


Through The Eyes Of Others

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bodyswap, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Disoriented, he stumbled to his feet, sought out a mirror and peered into its blurry surface only to see Athos’s ocean eyes staring back at him in dazed wonder.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through The Eyes Of Others

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the prompt:
> 
> "Athos, Porthos, and Aramis somehow end up switching bodies. None of them have ever particularly believed in spells or magic curses, etc., and they have to figure out how to switch themselves back. Canon universe preferred." (Full prompt [here](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=2914286#cmt2914286).)
> 
> This could have been crack but, me being me, it grew feelings and thus became my typical fare of mildly angsty fluff, only with a fantasy twist.

Aramis awoke to a pounding in his skull and a roiling in his stomach that were at odds with the amount of ale he remembered drinking the previous night. Carefully, he cracked open one eye and found himself staring up at a ceiling he didn’t recognise. Hoping for enlightenment, the other eye followed, and together they slowly swept the room, his brain struggling to make the necessary connections.

This was not his own room, but nor was it unfamiliar to him. And that only led to more questions: what was he doing sleeping in Athos’s apartments? And where was Athos?

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Aramis sat up, immediately regretting the movement when the room spun alarmingly. Dropping his chin to his chest with a groan, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, waited for the world to regain its balance. When the wave of nausea had passed, he risked opening his eyes again, blinking rapidly to chase away the fog of stuporous sleep. And then he frowned as his hands came into focus. Hands that seemed somehow…wrong.

With a sense of surreal detachment, Aramis came to the conclusion they were not, in fact, his hands at all. He turned them over, studied the lines and scars marking the skin, lines and scars that were not his own.

Disoriented, he stumbled to his feet, sought out a mirror and peered into its blurry surface only to see Athos’s ocean eyes staring back at him in dazed wonder.

Leaning closer, Aramis raised a trembling hand to his jaw, watching as, in the reflection, Athos did the same. He felt the scratch of untended bristles beneath his fingers where there should have been a neat beard. With Athos mirroring his every move in the glass, he trailed his fingertips up over his lips, pausing at the unmistakable bump of the scar that most definitely belonged to Athos.

“ _Mon Dieu_.”

Realisation hit him like a blow to the gut. If this was an ale-induced hallucination, it was unlike any he had ever experienced before. The mind could play tricks, but surely it could not conjure something so vivid, so real.

That he was jamming his feet into Athos’s boots, wrapping Athos’s cloak around his shoulders barely seemed important. His friend would forgive him this liberty once he knew the reason for its necessity.

The cool early morning air was a shock to Aramis’s heated skin. He stumbled to a stop, frozen in the middle of the grimy street, lost, uncertain where to turn. His plan to find Athos had struck a hurdle before he had even taken two steps; he had just left the man’s home – where was he now supposed to look?

Instinct more than anything else took him to Porthos’s apartments. If he didn’t know where to find Athos, he would seek out his other friend, surely find the help he needed there.

When the door opened to reveal Porthos’s solid, dependable frame, Aramis almost gasped in relief.

“Something strange has happened,” he said in a rush, slipping inside and pushing the door shut on the unbearably normal world outside. “When I awoke this morning, I wasn’t myself. Well, I _am_ myself, but I’m _not_ …” The words tripped over themselves as he struggled to put them into a coherent order. “What I mean to say is, I’m not Athos.”

Porthos was staring at him, most likely stunned not just by the unintelligible words but also by the speed with which they were tumbling from who he believed to be someone usually so taciturn. Pausing to take a breath, Aramis slumped heavily to the bed and tried to rein in his chaotic thoughts and form them into intelligible sentences. But before he could attempt to start again, Porthos spoke.

“I know.” Those two words, spoken so precisely in Porthos’s gravelly voice, struck a chord somewhere deep in Aramis’s mind and he made the connection even as the next sentence filled the astonished silence of the room. “For _I_ am Athos.”

For even so incredulous a declaration, Aramis believed it immediately, and there was comfort in knowing he wasn’t alone in this affliction. “So it’s not just me.”

“It would seem not.”

“But what is this?” Even as he asked, Aramis knew Athos had no answer. His characteristic air of self-possession was diminished a little by the way he awkwardly lowered himself onto a stool and flexed unfamiliar fingers against his thigh. Aramis dropped his head into his hands with a groan. This would be far easier to come to terms with were it not for the persistent throbbing at his temples.

“You have a headache.” It wasn’t a question, and there was a note of regret in Athos’s tone. “I can recommend a remedy.”

“If it involves a bucket of icy water, I’ll decline.” Aramis took a deep breath and raised his head. They had never yet hidden when faced with adversity and this was no different. “What do we do?”

“I suggest that we first find Porthos.” That was, of course, their most immediate concern, and not only because they invariably confronted all problems as a team. Athos rose to seek out Porthos’s boots and had just pulled them on when there was a clattering at the door. He straightened in alarm as the door flew open and Porthos burst in, stopping short when he caught sight of Athos, his eyes comically wide beneath Aramis’s unruly mop of hair.

“Porthos, I presume?”

“Yeah. I think.” His gaze flicked from Athos to Aramis, and then back again. “Athos?”

Athos gave a nod of confirmation. Porthos stepped closer and placed his hand on Athos’s chest – or, rather, Aramis’s hand on his own chest – to feel the thud of his heart against his palm. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I am afraid we are just as mystified as you.” Athos spoke as calmly as ever, and that, despite his lack of an answer, seemed to allay some of Porthos’s panic.

Slumping back against the wall, Porthos shook his head in bemused disbelief, ran an absent-minded hand through his hair, leaving it in even more of a state. Then he caught Aramis’s eye and gave a soft huff of amusement; if anyone could see the funny side of the situation, it would be Porthos. “Did someone make a wish?”

“It must have been you,” Aramis quipped back. “You have clearly been granted the best end of the bargain.”

Porthos snorted. “How do we fix it?”

“You can’t have tired of my body so soon, surely.” Aramis pouted at Porthos in mock dismay.

Porthos made a point of looking down at himself as if in deep consideration of the pros and cons of being trapped inside Aramis’s body before announcing his conclusion. “It’s too scrawny.”

Deeply wounded, Aramis gasped, one hand pressed to his breast as if to clutch at his broken heart. Porthos rolled his eyes at his melodramatic display and Aramis smiled. For the first time that morning some of his anxiety ebbed away, quelled by the mere presence of his friends.

“Gentlemen,” Athos said, always the voice of reason. “We will be late for parade.”

Both Aramis and Porthos looked at him, stunned. “But we can’t go like this!” Aramis protested. When the world had been turned upside-down, how could they be expected to act as if everything were normal?

“It will be easier than attempting to explain our absences to Treville.”

“He has a point.” Porthos looked unhappy but resigned. After a moment, Aramis nodded his agreement; they were all trained Musketeers – all they would have to do is stand to attention and perform the same duties they carried out every day. Surely it wouldn’t make a difference whose face they wore.

“Then I suggest we get dressed and make our way to the garrison,” Athos instructed, and Aramis and Porthos rose to obey, willing to follow Athos’s lead whatever the circumstances. As they made their way to the door, Aramis noticed his crucifix and rosary, nestled against Porthos’s chest, visible in the V created by the neck of his shirt.

Instantly realizing what had caught his attention, Porthos raised a hand to his throat, stopping just short of touching the cross. “D’you want it?”

Aramis shook his head. “No, no. It would look odd for Athos to be wearing it.” He knew he would feel almost lost without it, but was certain it would take more than this to test his faith. “Just please keep it safe.”

Porthos clasped his shoulder as they parted. “I will.”

* * * *

Dressing was an activity that typically required little thought, but donning the attire of another called for more concentration than Aramis seemed able to muster that morning. He was half way out of the door when he had to turn around and go back inside to fetch Athos’s scarf. Consequently, by the time he reached the garrison everyone else was already present and standing to attention in ranks across the courtyard. Aramis quickly slid into position beside Athos.

“I don’t know how you can stand feeling this horrid every morning,” he grumbled in a whisper.

“I did offer you a solution,” Athos replied in a low drawl.

“The solution would be to drink less.”

Athos said nothing to that, only remained staring ahead with an impassive expression that was entirely alien to Porthos’s usually animated features. Aramis wished he could take back the words. He hadn’t meant them to sound so harsh, but the headache was still niggling behind his eyes, and he could surely be forgiven for being a little out of sorts. About to apologise, he was interrupted by Treville’s appearance on the balcony and fell obediently silent instead. It wouldn’t be wise to draw undue attention to himself today.

For once, Aramis hoped to be assigned a simple guard duty, something that required little effort and would give them chance to talk about their problem. Unfortunately, with no significant royal functions or excursions planned, Treville had decided his troops could benefit from a day spent training. They wouldn’t be able to slip away from the crowds, but hopefully they could lose themselves amongst the general rabble.

As their fellow Musketeers fell out around them, Aramis turned to Athos intending to finally issue that apology, only to be beaten to the post.

“I’m sorry,” Athos said softly, Porthos’s dark eyes lending his gaze a deep solemnity. For all Athos willingly turned to drink as a means of self-punishment, as a way of drowning the sorrows of his past, he would never want one of his friends to suffer in his place. And now he had unwittingly left Aramis in just that position and his contrition was evident in the droop of his shoulders, weighed down by regret.

Bearing no real anger, Aramis was about to insist that he wasn’t to blame for this bizarre predicament they found themselves in, when Athos narrowed his eyes and peered at Aramis suspiciously.

“What have you done?”

Aramis blinked in confusion until it slowly dawned on him that Athos’s attention was directed at his chin. “Oh, you are referring to this.” Aramis ran a palm over what had that morning been unkempt scruff, but was now a smartly groomed moustache and beard. “I thought you were overdue a bit of a tidy.”

“Hmn.” It was difficult to ascertain whether Athos’s opinion was weighted more towards the positive or negative, grunted as it was in Porthos’s baritone, nor did he get the chance to find out for they were interrupted by d’Artagnan.

“You’re up next,” he announced cheerfully, handing them each a musket. They had been oblivious to the bustle around them, but the training activities were now well underway. Porthos was already over near the shooting range preparing his own musket, so Aramis and Athos joined him, glad of the distraction provided by so familiar an activity. As he lined up his shot, Aramis gave thanks that Athos possessed good eyesight and nimble fingers, and the very act of calming his breathing into a regular controlled rhythm alleviated the tension from the morning’s extraordinary discoveries.

The call came to fire, three shots rang out, and a neat hole bloomed in the centre of Aramis’s target, just as he had known it would. His celebratory grin, however, withered to a grimace when he looked to his left and saw the result of Porthos’s effort. He had at least managed to hit the target, but that was little consolation to Aramis.

“Porthos!” he scolded, directing an unhappy scowl at his friend. “Are you trying to ruin my reputation as the finest shot in the regiment?”

Porthos had the decency to look sheepishly contrite. “If that –” he jerked a thumb at the target “– had only been a melon.”

Aramis’s frown deepened even further when d’Artagnan came to offer his commiserations. “What happened, Aramis?” he asked, looking far too amused for Aramis’s liking. “Even Porthos beat you!”

Shooting Aramis an apologetic glance, Porthos gave an embarrassed shrug. “A fly flew into my eye.”

“Yes. Those flies are a veritable nuisance,” Aramis ground out from between clenched teeth, glaring at Porthos for such a poor attempt at concocting an explanation. D’Artagnan looked around as if trying to spot the alleged culprit, clearly in two minds as to the veracity of the excuse.

“I don’t see any flies.”

Before Aramis could even begin to rescue the situation, Athos intervened by loudly clearing his throat. “Perhaps we should go and do something else.”

“Good idea.” Porthos looked eager to forget the whole calamity and quickly herded them over to where some of the newer recruits were dueling under Treville’s watchful eye.

“Ah, Athos!” the captain called. “Come and show them how it’s done.”

Still wallowing in his misfortune, Aramis was startled when Athos nudged his shoulder, shot his friend a puzzled glance.

“He means you.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Aramis made an effort to gather his wits as he stepped out into the yard and drew Athos’s sword to engage the three young men.

Trying to emulate the fluid grace with which Athos wielded a sword took more concentration than he would have liked, and he came close to falling foul of a lucky lunge once or twice, hindered also by the lingering effects of the wine Athos had consumed. His limbs were slow to respond, his mind still a little sluggish, but he mercifully managed to avoid tripping over his own feet. In the end, he gave up his attempts at imitation and resorted to relying on his own skills.

Thankfully, they proved more than a match for the less experienced recruits he was sparring with. He accepted his victory with a fair interpretation of Athos’s impassive humility that hid his internal cringe as he felt Treville’s gaze bore into him. Quickly slipping away, he met Athos’s eyes in silent apology as he rejoined the others.

“Not my finest hour.” The face may have belonged to Porthos, but the wry humour was entirely Athos.

“At least I won,” Aramis averred. “Which is more than can be said for Porthos.”

Porthos gave an aggrieved huff. “Maybe if I didn’t have all this hair fallin’ in me eyes I could’ve aimed better.” To illustrate his point, he raked a hand through Aramis’s dark curls, shoving them away from his face. His unhappy pout when it all bounced back into place was so absurd that Aramis couldn’t help but grin.

“And what fine hair it is!”

That had Porthos laughing, his spirits immediately lifting. When he had calmed, he turned to Athos and met his eyes, serious now. “You should smile more often,” he said solemnly. “It suits you.”

D’Artagnan listened to their exchange with increasing bewilderment, his gaze darting between the three of them. A crease formed between his brows and he opened his mouth but, finding himself at a loss for words, just gaped at them instead. Noticing his obvious confusion – for it was not often d’Artagnan was rendered speechless – Aramis schooled his features back into cool inscrutability and subtly jabbed Porthos in the ribs.

While d’Artagnan was still trying to make sense of the curious scene playing out before him, another Musketeer approached them, stopping before Athos.

“Porthos!” he greeted with a worrying smile. “Just the man we were looking for!”

Athos raised an enquiring eyebrow, betraying no hint of the dubious anxiety that was surely lurking behind Porthos’s steely gaze at the thought of what might be in store for him. Nor did he hesitate to follow the man; neither he nor Porthos were the sort to baulk at a challenge.

He was led into a crowd of men arranged into a rough circle at the centre of which stood a burly Musketeer who looked to have fought his way through several of the regiment already. He grinned, showing bloodied teeth, anticipating the thrill of a more formidable challenge when he saw who his next opponent was to be.

At this point, Porthos would usually make some kind of quip, but Athos merely removed his sword belt and handed it to Aramis for safekeeping as he stoically resigned himself to his fate. As he turned to face his adversary, Porthos gave him an encouraging slap on the back, looking about as apprehensive as Aramis felt.

The two combatants squared up to each other, Athos’s movements rather stiff. He was trying to get used to Porthos’s additional bulk, showing all the ungainly grace of a newborn foal. The other brawler’s eyes widened in surprise at this uncharacteristic lack of coordination, then he promptly took advantage of what he perceived to be a weakness and threw himself at Athos, fist upraised and ready to strike.

Instinct took over and Athos ducked, evading the punch but almost losing his balance in the process. He took a step back, providing himself with a moment to recover before the next attack came. In the split second before the other man spun and lunged forward once more, Athos strategically switched tactics, drew himself to Porthos’s full height, and bunched his hands into fists. Opting for attack rather than defence, he stepped forward to meet his attacker with a well-aimed punch to the nose.

The crunch of bone and cartilage was audible; the man came to a halt just as surely as if he had collided with a stone wall, a grunt of pain and surprise torn from his throat as blood burst from his nose. Wide, stunned eyes stared at Athos for a beat, then rolled up into his head as his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Horrified, Athos looked down at the felled man then at the hand still clenched in a solid fist. Both Aramis and Porthos rushed into the clearing, Aramis kneeling to check on the injured man while Porthos draped an arm around Athos’s shoulders in what was hopefully construed as a congratulatory hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Athos muttered, still aghast at the damage he had just inadvertently caused. “Is he alright?”

Aramis looked up from his examination and gave Athos a comforting nod of confirmation. “Just a broken nose. Fortunately, I think you may actually have improved his looks.”

Porthos chuckled as Aramis rose and they quickly herded Athos away before another opponent could be found for him.

The rest of the day became an exercise in lurking unobtrusively in the background so as to avoid any more unfortunate mishaps. Even d’Artagnan’s curious mind was eventually distracted by the lure of beating as many of his fellow Musketeers as possible in the activities Treville set them. Still, it was with not inconsiderable relief that they finally heard the captain call that they were all dismissed.

“I think we’ve earned a drink,” Porthos announced, already heading out of the garrison with d’Artagnan at his heels, the nearest inn his obvious destination. Rather than follow them immediately, Athos paused and looked to Aramis with a silent question and eyes that revealed lingering self-reproach; he would willingly dissuade Porthos from this plan should Aramis be against it. But Aramis gave a nod of assent.

“He’s right. We could all do with a little respite.”

Hurrying after the others, they quickly caught up with them because Porthos had been waylaid by a couple of ladies folding linen sheets. By the grin plastered across his face, he had no complaints about this particular diversion. Aramis stopped to flash the women his most charming smile, a gesture that had d’Artagnan executing a perfect double take.

With a glower, Athos growled, “Aramis!” in a rebuke clearly aimed at both men. Reluctantly, Aramis and Porthos bade farewell to their audience and tore themselves away.

“I’ve decided bein’ you ain’t all bad,” Porthos declared as they rejoined Athos and d’Artagnan.

Athos raised an eyebrow. “I’d keep an eye out for cuckolded husbands if I were you,” he advised, deadpan.

Unable to argue with his wisdom, Aramis ducked his head in abashed recognition. Athos may have been joking, but there was, as always, a friendly warning to his words that Aramis knew he was a fool to ignore.

It was Porthos who distracted him from thoughts that might easily have led to self-condemnation with a hearty laugh as he linked arms with both Aramis and Athos. This was what was important, this unquestioning affection and indestructible bond that linked them immutably. Whatever the world chose to throw at them.

* * * *

As they took their seats around a vacant table, Aramis saw Porthos raise his hand to his head for the umpteenth time that day. “Porthos!” he hissed, leaning close, “would you please stop fidgeting with my hair.”

Porthos removed his fingers from where they were once again tangled in the tousled curls, caught in the act of sweeping it back once again. “Sorry,” he muttered, unaware that he had been doing it so often.

Athos tugged free the bandana that was tucked into his belt and offered it to Porthos, only to have it snatched away before it could be gratefully accepted.

“You can’t wear that!” Aramis exclaimed, scandalised, shooting Athos a glare for even thinking such a thing.

“Why not?” Porthos grumbled unhappily. “Afraid people’ll think I’ve started a fashion trend?”

“Highly improbable.” Aramis shoved the offending article into his own belt, safely out of reach and thrust his hat at Porthos instead.

D’Artagnan cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed speculatively as he regarded each of his friends in turn. But before he could speak, a heavy hand fell on Athos’s shoulder and they all looked up in surprise.

It was Porthos who recognised the owner of that hand, and his soft groan of despair didn’t bode well.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten our wager, Porthos,” the newcomer said, his rough voice laced with mischievous menace.

Athos’s glance at Porthos earned him only an apologetically helpless shrug. The glare he received in response promised murder, but when he turned to address the rugged, shifty-looking man behind him, he was full of nothing but Porthos’s carefree confidence.

“’Course not,” he scoffed, and let himself be led off to a neighbouring table where a pack of cards was produced accompanied by a predatory smirk. If Athos was at all nervous it didn’t show, but Porthos could barely bring himself to watch.

“If ’e loses, I’ll never live it down.”

Aramis chuckled softly at the woebegone expression on his face. “You only have yourself to blame,” he pointed out, not unreasonably.

Torture at the hands of the Spanish would likely have been less painful to endure if Porthos’s antsy fidgeting was anything to go by. He alternated between trying to peer over Athos’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes closed every time he laid down a hand, unable to bear the tension. In the end, Aramis had to place a hand on his knee to stop its restless jiggling.

Finally, after what might have been an eternity of strained suspense, Athos fanned his final hand of cards across the scarred tabletop with a flourish to a chorus of cheers and jeers. Porthos’s whoop of delight was far and away the loudest, while Aramis tried to restrain himself to a show of reserved pride at his friend’s victory.

Returning to their table after accepting several congratulatory back-slaps, Athos slumped onto the bench beside Porthos, slouching comfortably against the wall at his back, legs splayed wide and a huge, satisfied grin plastered across his face. The posture and expression was so perfectly _Porthos_ that both Aramis and Porthos could only gape at him in stunned silence, hardly able to believe it was really Athos inhabiting that body.

“What?” Athos said in Porthos’s rumbling drawl. “’Ave I got somethin’ on me face?”

Porthos recovered first and clapped Athos on the shoulder. “No, my friend,” he chuckled. “You are just as handsome as ever.”

Aramis snorted, and had to bite his cheek to prevent himself grinning in a decidedly un-Athos-like manner. Of them all, he would not have guessed it to be Athos who so easily adopted the character of another, but it was a joy to watch.

Leaning conspiratorially closer to Athos, Porthos added, “I hope you’re keepin’ my winnings safe.”

And Athos returned to himself with the simple arch of an eyebrow. “ _Your_ winnings?”

“It was _my_ wager.”

“Which _I_ won. And, I might add, without cheating.”

Porthos clutched a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

Failing to suppress a laugh, Aramis tried to hide it behind his cup of wine. D’Artagnan, however, had seen and heard enough to finally give in to his bemusement.

“You have all been acting really strangely.” Leaning forward on his elbows, he fixed them all with his most probing gaze, determined to finally get to the bottom of the bizarre behaviour he had been witnessing all day. “What’s going on?”

Aramis and Porthos both looked to Athos, naturally deferring to his leadership, just as they did in most things. He inclined his head; it was past time they took d’Artagnan into their confidence.

“I apologise, d’Artagnan,” Athos began, his voice low even though the noise filling the room around them was loud enough to grant them privacy. “We should have told you sooner, only we have been trying to make sense of it ourselves.”

D’Artagnan gave an understanding nod, silently imploring Athos to continue with wide, unblinking eyes.

“We each awoke this morning to find we were not ourselves.”

A frown tugged at the corner of d’Artagnan’s mouth as he struggled to make sense of that. Porthos took pity, rephrased it in his typical no-nonsense manner.

“What ’e means is, we’ve swapped bodies.”

If it was possible, d’Artagnan’s eyes grew even wider as he gaped mutely at his friends. Slowly, he began to recover, a smile spreading across his face.

“I’ve heard of this happening, but I’ve never seen it for myself,” he muttered in awe. It wasn’t the reaction Aramis had been expecting. D’Artagnan didn’t even question whether it was all some kind of grand practical joke, such was his trust in his friends and the extent of the incontestable evidence he had observed. “So who’s who? No—” He held up a hand to forestall their introductions. “Let me guess.”

It was testament to how well d’Artagnan now knew them that he identified them all without any trouble. Or perhaps not, considering what a poor job they had been doing at concealing their predicament.

“So you know what this is?” Porthos asked with tangible hope. “How we c’n fix it?”

“I’ve only ever heard stories, back in Gascony,” d’Artagnan admitted, but his desire to help was palpable. “Usually, those afflicted switch back after the course of one full day. Unless…” He paused, frowned.

“Unless what?” Porthos prompted gruffly.

“Unless there is witchcraft involved.”

“And then?”

D’Artagnan gave a reluctant shrug. “Like I said, I’ve only know of the stories and rumours. I didn’t even really believe they were true, until now.”

“Let us cross that bridge if we come to it,” Athos suggested gently, but his voice held a gloomy inflection that revealed his own quiet hope that this wouldn’t prove to be the case.

“So,” Aramis said, forcing some optimistic cheer into his tone. “All we have to do is wait until midnight, and we’ll be back in our own bodies.”

D’Artagnan nodded with exaggerated fervour. “Yes.” And then he somewhat spoiled the effect by adding, “I think so.”

Aramis and Porthos followed Athos’s lead and drained their cups.

* * * *

It was by unspoken mutual agreement that they all retired to Aramis’s rooms to wait out the short time remaining until midnight. Had they been alone, the respite of sleep would likely have been unattainable, but with the comfort of having their brothers close by, they all somehow fell into an exhausted slumber.

When Aramis woke, the first rays of morning sunlight were slanting in through the window, giving the room a bright golden glow that was at odds with the uneasy jolt of recollection that struck his stomach. Rolling his head to the side, he saw Athos’s dishevelled hair falling across the rumpled pillow beside him and, raising himself up on an elbow, the curve of Porthos’s shoulder. Tentative relief and fond affection swept over him in equal measure.

Still, he had to be sure. Scrambling up from the bed, Aramis dashed across to the nearest mirror, swallowing back nervous trepidation as he looked into its surface. The fluttering in his chest subsided as he stared into his own eyes, flashed himself a grin that only died when he registered the state of his hair. Mentally cursing Porthos, he started combing it back into order.

“Am I to assume everything is back to normal?”

Aramis turned, found Athos looking up at him from the bed.

“Yes, I believe it is.” D’Artagnan might be naïve in some matters, but there was a wealth of information lurking in that young head.

“Mmn, good.” Porthos’s voice drifted up from somewhere behind Athos.

“There’s no need to sound quite so pleased,” Aramis groused, but the strength of his grievance was tempered by its amiable delivery. He could sympathise with Porthos’s sentiment; as much as he loved Athos, it felt good to be himself again.

They ate breakfast together, as easy in each other’s company as always. If anything, this had only strengthened their bond.

Before he left, Porthos divided up the coins from the purse Athos had collected from the gambler in the inn and insisted Athos take half despite his protest that there was no need. In exchange, Athos returned the bandana Aramis had confiscated.

Stopping Athos as he too went to depart, Aramis pressed a small vial into his hand.

“Next time you wake up suffering the effects of too much wine, add some of this to boiling water and drink it as soon as it cools. You may even find it as effective as a bucket of freezing water.”

“I will certainly try it,” Athos promised. “Thank you, my friend.” The warm smile of gratitude that curled the corners of his lips chased away the memory of the previous day’s trials. They could survive anything, together.


End file.
